


no fatal trespasses for me

by orangesparks



Series: desperate to survive [3]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: F/M, Gen, Period Typical Slurs, rating for language and themes, tw for child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 07:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13119096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangesparks/pseuds/orangesparks
Summary: Bad kids drew each other like flies in towns like these.





	no fatal trespasses for me

**Author's Note:**

> A movie-verse update of one of my favorite book scenes. (I wrote a [book-verse version here,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1640993) about a zillion years ago.)
> 
> ETA: If you're interested in listening to any of the music/artists mentioned in this series, there is a [companion mixtape here](https://kaseta.co/play/l9vZ7hC).

CORINNE: You are so jealous of me. I'm everything you ever wanted to be.  
  
BILLY: A cunt?  
  
CORINNE: Exactly.  
  
  
  
_-Ladies and Gentlemen, the Fabulous Stains_  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"I'm never going to own anything can hurt me."  
  
"You going to collect rocks, Jim? No, someday, you've got to be hurt." _ ___  
  
  
  
-Ray Bradbury,  _Something Wicked This Way Comes_

   
  


  
-  


 

Bad kids drew each other like flies in towns like these. Towns small enough to guarantee your crossing paths was a question of not _if_ , but _when_ \- didn't matter if all you had in common was carving crude genitalia onto the Kissing Bridge or into the same tattered Texas Instruments history textbook.

So maybe it had been inevitable, Bev Marsh drifting into his friends' stratosphere, however briefly.

Vic and Henry had known each other since first grade, had the same homeroom teacher. Belch came a year later, the first time he was held back; the few short years when he was still Reggie, before earning his esteemed nickname that should have faded by freshman year at the latest but never did.

Vic had known Bev Marsh since then, too.

Al Marsh and Andy Criss were similar types, blue collar holler-and-spit gents who frequented the same Wing Night Wednesdays and bowl-four-get-one-free-lucky-strike lanes and pitcher-of-Busch-for-a-dollar taverns. While Marsh mopped floors and changed lightbulbs at Derry Home Hospital, Criss picked and sold the produce grown in his increasingly shabby farmyard, bemoaning all the while how the town had gone to shit ever since desegregation reared its ugly head.

Five-year-old Bev and six-year-old Vic (later, six-year-old Bev seven-year-old Vic, and by the end, seven-year-old Bev eight-year-old Vic) had been eager enough to disappear into the Elk Lodge rec room and the alley and trainyard behind it, far away from their fathers' reminiscing over the good ol' days.

They were not yet at the age when _boy_ and _girl_ were so clear and distinct modifiers that prevented one from being friends, or at least afraid to play together, and so for those first few years, they'd played, throwing darts in the rec room and racing each other down traintracks and making Vic's He-Man figurine battle Bev's sky-blue Tyrannosaurus Rex (both that year's favored Christmas presents - Vic's plucked off the discount shelf at Freese's, Bev's from the charity barrel outside St. Jude's Thrift).

Her mother had still been around, then, too. Elfrida Marsh was a frail woman, not one for making eye contact, her own coppery hair thin and lank around her face. She never shouted - but then, Alvin Marsh never shouted, either. Least, not around others.

Beverly's father had a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Vic privately thought the man could give Butch Bowers a run for his money in the dead-eyed department. Because with the both of them, the calm before the inevitable storm always seemed so much worse (and as someone who had been on the receiving end of Butch Bowers' temper on more than one of those unfortunate days when he and Belch had been tricked into helping Henry with his chores, Vic could certainly attest to that).

He remembered the day Bev had decided they could earn themselves a decent chunk of change by selling their old comic books on the steps of the Elk Lodge; had convinced Vic that they'd find themselves rich enough to buy cones from the Dairy Queen down the road ("Not the little kid's cones, either - we can get the _biggest_ ones," she'd said, and her delight was so contagious that he'd found himself rapturously listing all the flavors in his mind and ponderously wondering which he'd finally decide on when they made it down there with their loot).

They'd made about a dollar a piece, after enough mildly amused adults had passed their makeshift stoop shop with its little cardboard sign and had pity on them ("COMICS 15 sents" struck out and rewritten, patiently, in its correct spelling), and had decided to immediately celebrate the occasion by walking all by themselves to the Dairy Queen. They hadn't had enough for the extra-larges, as Bev had promised, but the cones they'd gotten were big enough (Vic chocolate moose tracks, Bev pistachio) and he'd felt marvelously grown-up at buying his own ice cream with his own money. That feeling had faded when they'd made their way back to the Elk Lodge and found both their fathers waiting outside.

Because in all their excitement, they hadn't exactly stopped to let them in on their little field trip, had they.

Andy Criss was already four beers in and happy to lecture up a storm, but Al Marsh, who constantly let everyone know that he wasn't there to drink, he was there to _converse_ , and always sat in the corner nursing ginger ale - oh, his face had been _thunderous_. And for the first time, watching that baleful hounddog face shadow and snarl, Vic knew, somehow, that part of this rage was focused on _him_ , too, as the man darted him a _look_ before crushing his daughter's hand into a bouqueted fist of callused knuckles, her pistachio cone flying and spattering on the pavement below.

That had been the last Vic had seen of Bev that day.

The next time he'd seen her at the Elk Lodge, she didn't have any fanciful ideas about money-making or ice cream trips. She'd sat very still, looking at him almost disinterestedly, and when he'd suggested they sneak out to the train tracks and throw rocks at passing sidecars (maybe even have a race, like they'd done the week before), she'd refused. If he'd been older, he'd have pondered over this; might have even asked if something was wrong. But he was eight and impatient and it was clear to him that Bev was suddenly _boring_. And if she wasn't going to join him, well, he'd just go and have fun himself. And so he did.

The Elk Lodge trips lessened over the years, once his father decided he was old enough to stay at home himself, and Vic had readily agreed; Bev's father must have decided on the same even earlier, for she disappeared from the rec room long before he had. He'd thought no more on the closing of this chapter in his life than he had the outgrown clothes and toys his mother had donated to St. Jude's.

Until freshman year.

 

-

 

"Bowie?" Vic pulled a face, nearly biting the filter of the cigarette clean off. "But he's... _old_."

"Yeah, but he's a genius. That's more than _some_ people can say for themselves, don't you think?" To emphasize this point, Bev batted her eyelashes at him in exaggerated demurity. Passing her the cigarette, he casually shot up the finger with his other hand.

She took a drag and exhaled, slowly, eyes still wide and frozen-sky-blue inside their halo of smudged mascara before her mouth split into a shit-eating grin, ragged and artless and tomboyish, effectively destroying the scandalized ingenue gag she was so good at conjuring when she wanted to be an asshole. Ashing onto the steps they were ducked behind, she passed back.

School smoke breaks that took place anywhere but inside one of Derry High's luxury _Chateau Marmont_ boys' bathrooms in all their graffiti'd glory were a rarity for Vic - not because he didn't feel the urge, but more because he wasn't particularly interested in getting caught. A look-out partner was necessary for outdoor smoke breaks, and Henry and Belch's schedules didn't sync with his this semester as much as he'd have liked.

Not only did Bev Marsh happen to be in his study hall - she also had an almost endless supply of Winstons at her disposal.

(When he'd first demanded to know where she got them, she simply lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "Magicians never tell." Vic sighed, "From your dad, then, I guess. Lucky." Her smile turned brittle. "Yeah. Lucky.")

"How 'bout you?"

Vic startled mid-drag, coughing. "Huh?"

"Your pick."

"Christ, we're still on that?"

Bev dropped her chin into her hand, studying him. "It's someone really embarrassing, isn't it."

Vic scowled. "No."

"Well, c'mon. You asked me first."

It was true, he had - not because he was dying to know who the female population of Derry High were collectively wetting themselves over (not at present, anyway), but more because he wanted to know what _her_ angle was.

Despite ol' Hank's swaggering bravado, Vic was willing to bet his Jack Morris rookie card that, despite what he'd been telling the others since sixth grade (perhaps even _because_ of it), he'd never so much as touched a girl's _hand_ , let alone anything hidden under a tight blouse or pair of Levis. And now, for Beverly Marsh of all people to suddenly be orbiting their group--

He deserved to know what the fuck was going on.

Especially since Bev didn't seem particularly interested in Henry, least not in that way - not just before, but even after she'd started hanging around. Truth be told, she seemed just as willing to sit and chat with himself or Belch as she was with Hank; a fact that did not go unnoticed (or appreciated) by the boy in question. Not that Henry had ever been in the running for Mr. Congeniality before, but the addition of Bev to their group had made him an exposed, raw nerve - quicker to snap and lash at the slightest provocation. And that had chapped Vic's hide, too, slashing another 'X' under the list of reasons why Bev Marsh was nothing but fucking trouble.

(Perhaps it wasn't fair to assign her the blame - but perhaps, also, he didn't fucking care.)

Truth was, girls had never been particularly fond of him and his friends. Despite the blow to his ego that admitting this entailed, he supposed he couldn't say he blamed them, especially when Henry's idea of courting was shouting obscenities from the passenger window of the Trans Am.

If she had picked Matt Dillon, maybe even Kiefer Sutherland or Michael Pare, for her crush-- _then_ , maybe, he'd understand everything, see her hanging with them as a rebellious get-back-at-Daddy scheme. Hell, even Gard Jagermyer, nearly as mean as Henry and ten times as ugly, had managed to land himself a girlfriend not long ago for that very reason. Weirder shit had happened.

But far as Vic knew, the most that Henry and Bowie had in common was breathing.

(And, up until a few weeks ago - he'd have said about the same for Henry and Bev.)

"It's Mrs. Cole, isn't it?"

Vic flicked ash at her; she easily ducked it, snatching the cigarette back. Wilma Cole was the lunchroom monitor, notoriously prone to shrieking at kids and awarding demerits for offenses as innocuous as taking one dessert too many. She made Nurse Ratched look like June Cleaver.

"We said celebrities," he reminded her, refusing to rise to the bait. Bev chuckled, the sound low in her throat, and he swallowed, looking away. She always seemed on the edge of quiet amusement; it made a guy wonder if she was secretly laughing at him.

"She's a local celebrity."

"You're not gonna shut up 'til I answer, are you?"

She cocked her head lazily, considering. "That, or just keep guessing 'til you do."

"You're a fucking pain, y'know? Jesus. I'd rather smoke with Hockstetter."

This, of course, was a lie - even if 'non-smoker' _wasn't_ yet another on the bizarre laundry list of adjectives one could use to describe Hockstetter (whose fascination with burning things was second only to his fascination with Henry), one couldn't pay Vic to spend time alone with the other boy that didn't involve one of them incapacitated or dead.

She smiled, blowing him a kiss with a cloud of smoke as she exhaled. He heaved a sigh.

"Fine. Vanity. Happy now?"

Her smug grin said as much.

His cheeks (and neck) were quickly growing a mottled pink, he knew; the perils of being born so fair-skinned. "Oh, fuck off," he muttered to his elbow.

"Hey, no judgment," said Bev, raising a placating hand, Winston still jauntily angled between her fingers. " _I'd_ probably date Vanity. I bet she's cool to hang with." For a moment, he allowed himself to get lost in _that_ friendly little idea, and felt himself grow even warmer.

He shifted from his crouching position and snatched the cigarette from her, glowering. The worst part was that she didn't even know she'd made him uncomfortable, or at least didn't care; seemed to think it was all still part of the antagonistic little dance between them, performative and defanged, the one they'd started ever since she unwittingly swept into their gang.

"What's so great about Bowie, anyway?"

"I dunno, but the 'Let's Dance' video really does things for me."

"Gross."

Bev laughed. "For someone so tough, you're pretty squeamish." Before he could protest this slander, she barrelled on: "Girls have to hear guys talk about this shit all the time, so to quote Helen Slater - fair's fair. It's like you think we sit around daydreaming about holding hands, or something."

Would Bev ever hold hands with Henry? Vic wondered. He couldn't picture it. He didn't know if he could see her holding hands with _anyone_. (He wasn't ashamed to admit he got a kick out of the increasingly violent insults she spit at Patrick whenever he tried his infamous touchy-feely-nice-and-easy routine on her.)

"He doesn't give a fuck what people think."

"What?"

"Bowie," said Bev. "He does what he wants. I like that."

The bell rang, then; he'd wanted to chide her for for being too chatty, for hogging the cigarette (his jibes at her a bluff, as always; it was her cigarette, after all), but he was still stuck on her answer, couldn't manage more than a stiff nod at her casual "See you after class?" before she was swept down the hall in the opposite direction.

He'd thought about it later that night, curled up in bed, struggling to fall asleep; thought of it still months later, when Bev was long gone and banished from their little gang ("She got too _clingy_ ," Henry'd insisted to the others' guffaws, after he'd regaled them with lurid tales of the things he and Beverly Marsh had gotten up to when they were alone, and even if Hank's face and voice and movement hadn't gone to the same damning tell they always did when he lied, the too-cool-too-uncaring-too-calm act that was not Henry Bowers at _all_ , the idea of Henry casting off a girl for _wanting_ him too much was so ridiculous it made Vic want to laugh until he retched).

He and the others had been sprawled out in the Huggins family rec room, dark wood-paneled and nestled between the garage and laundry room, MTV blaring from the beat-up rabbit-eared Zenith in the corner. He and Belch were trading cigarettes (Vic's Kools for Belch's Marlboros) when the lingerie models gyrating around Diamond Dave and the rest of the boys in 'Hot for Teacher' were traded for the opening strains of 'Let's Dance'.

"Turn off that faggot crap," Henry commanded, to Patrick's approving titters. But before Belch could oblige, Vic caught a glimpse of Bowie, slouching elegant and cool against the wall of a dusty canteen as he sweated and sang and strummed, unnaturally whiteblond hair short on the sides and long on top, falling romantically into his eyes; hid behind his own ratty bleached out bangs when he snorted and Henry stared at him: _Care to speak up, friend?_

He does what he wants, Bev had said, so admiringly.

 _Hell,_ Vic thought. _How nice that must be._

 

-

 

Baseball didn't hold the same charm these days.

He supposed it had always been more Belch's thing than his; still, pitching had been nice, once, the satisfying _smack_ of launching a ball somewhere close to Jupiter with the power of nothing more than killer aim and a restless fist, the responding warmth blooming in his chest when he'd done well enough to garner the cheers of the crowd, pretend it meant some semblance of respect. Ostensibly, he'd brought his ball to the field behind Tracker Brothers to practice.

In truth, he just wanted out of the house. And the less questions his father asked, the better.

He had wandered into overcast sunshine, ball thudding like a pendulum inside his coat pocket (in the middle of feeling so very indulgently sorry for himself), when who should be lighting a cigarette on the bleachers but Beverly fucking Marsh, battered two-tape boombox perched next to her (from it, Joey Ramone bragging in his signature muddy croon that he didn't care about this world _or_ that girl).

Vic winced.

Gathering the last ounce of courage he had left for the day, he approached her.

That rockfight had been embarrassment enough, sure, getting their asses kicked by a slew of little kids (getting their asses kicked by a _girl_ ), but even before that, when Henry had set his sights on her and she'd obviously declined and ol' Hank had retaliated not with fists, as per usual, but with oily rumors around school (and though Vic hadn't added to them himself, he'd seen the way she slunk into herself, after, the way girls like Gretta Keene and Sally Mueller had picked up the physical bullying slack where Henry himself couldn't, and yes, the guilt had been there, but not enough for him to actually say anything in her defense, Christ, not if he valued his _own_ goddamn neck)--

"What do you want," she said.

_One of those cigarettes. And also, maybe, for you to not jump down my fuckin' throat straight aways._

"I gotta tell you something."

"Whatever delightful little love note Henry wants to send me, he can do it himself."

And she was not wrong in her thinking. If Hank had already been furious over her rejection, the fact that she'd assisted (hell, assisted - she'd _led_ ) six of his favorite victims in annihilating them at the rock fight had turned that anger nuclear. The c-word had become a constant in his swear repertoire this summer.

Why in hell had he thought this was a good idea?

 _"I don't care... I don't care... I don't care..."_ Joey Ramone insisted.

And right on fuckin' schedule, Stuttering Denbrough and Four-Eyes Tozier wandered out from the alley between Center Street Drug and Freese's that spilled out onto the field, each clutching a giant wax milkshake cup, Tozier's already gushing chocolate out of the lid. Vic instantly slouched, oversized army jacket swallowing his neck and torso.

It took the other boys roughly four seconds to realize Bev wasn't alone.

"What the fuck!" yelped Tozier, eyes bugging behind his current set of Coke bottles (Vic himself had been responsible for more than one incident in which they'd needed replacing over the years). The sudden movement made even more milkshake leak out from his cup. Denbrough's gaze darted to Bev. And maybe Vic was expecting one or both of them to charge over and plant themselves between them (maybe because it was the sort of possessive macho bullshit he could imagine Henry trying); instead, they strolled over and stood next to her. Shoulder to shoulder.

Like an army.

(like _gunslingers_ , his mind supplied, almost ludicrously)

"B-Buh-Bev, are you--"

"We were talking," Bev said, smiling thinly. He recognized the look on her face all too well; had it leveled at him by his mother one time too many. _Get this over with, and make it good,_ that look said. But the impotent fury of being bossed around by some girl in the grade below his was currently outweighed by his desire to not see his buddy Henry actually murder someone this summer.

"Catching up on old times, huh?" Tozier volunteered sarcastically. Vic couldn't tell if it was meant to be a knock at himself or Bev or both, but Denbrough shot a look at Tozier and the other boy snapped his mouth shut.

"You need to watch yourselves," said Vic, and though Tozier bristled at the implied threat, Bev and Denbrough remained silent, looking at each other sidelong before returning their attention to him. There was a shorthand of intimacy in that look, something so private that Vic almost felt like an intruder for witnessing it.

"Okay," snapped Tozier. "Maybe my math isn't great, but wait a fucking _minute_. Last I checked, there's three of us and one of you... isn't there?" Abruptly, he darted a panicked glance around, as if checking to see where Henry and the others might be lurking, perhaps crouched behind one of the nearby magnolia bushes.

"It's only me," Vic said dully.

"Good thing we're such awesome pals and can so totally trust you."

"R-R-Ruh-Ruh-Richie--"

"Spit it out or forever hold your peace, Big Bill."

Before Denbrough could provide more secondhand embarrassment by taking the rest of the afternoon to finish his fucking sentence, Bev spoke.

"Let him talk."

She said it with such quiet authority that it gave him chills. The others must have felt it, too, since they relaxed their postures, now, slightly, those unconscious fighting stances they'd fallen into (even as Tozier, theatrical as ever, rolled his eyes heaven-ward, muttering under his breath peevishly, "Just because he's one of your old _boyfriends_ \--").

Vic swallowed. They were waiting for him to speak.

When it came to him and his friends, talking was a right taken, not given; they spoke over each other comfortably and often - or, at least, they had until this past year. He'd never been thrust into the spotlight so entirely before.

"You need to stay away from Henry," he managed, finally; then, just so there was no mistaking his meaning, "you and all your friends."

"Shit." Tozier sucked in a long breath through his teeth. "Guess I better tell him our big Ninja Turtle double b-day is off, then."

Bev elbowed him in the side. The biting comment Vic wanted to make wilted on his tongue. He felt his face burning. Why the fuck should they listen to him in the first place?

"Beep, beep," said Bev, and before Vic could wonder what the fuck that was about (maybe he hadn't heard correctly), she held out her cigarette. For one lunatic moment, he'd thought she was passing to _him_ , until Tozier snatched it from her hand and sucked in a furious drag, as if nicotine would provide him with the answer as to why Victor fucking Criss was standing here trying to talk to them.

"What happened?" Bev asked. She said it so flat and so quiet, more like an acknowledgment that some bad shit surely had to have gone down rather than a true question, and he felt his heart lift, if only a little - because it wasn't a nice feeling, not exactly, but still, the possibility that he wasn't alone in this was enough to fill him with the stirrings of hope.

It was a hell of a question. Yet now that he had the floor, he hadn't the faintest what to say - ironic, considering his constant running mouth had landed him in detention more often than not. He could talk about how Tozier's Hawaiian shirt looked like dried dog puke, how even the teachers mocked Denbrough's stutter when he wasn't around, how Bev needed to stop feeling so goddamn comfortable sidling into people's lives and completely upending them--

And that wasn't fair, was it.

But Vic Criss wasn't interested much in _fair_ , he was interested in _alive_ , and so he stood pondering how to put into words the fear that had laced his guts as long ago as last summer, when Patrick Hockstetter first slithered his way into Henry's good graces and he and his aerosol can and lighter and unsettling grin were suddenly parked next to Vic in the back of the Trans Am, how not even weeks later Henry had started his game of snarling at Vic and Belch for nothing in particular (and yes, he'd blamed that on Bev, but it had started earlier, hadn't it, if he wanted to get this timeline truly right) - how things had been getting worse by the end of freshman year, when they'd cornered the Hanscom kid on the Kissing Bridge (the most action any of them would ever get by _that_ particular place, har har har), the way he'd felt excitement and fury whip into his blood, eager to see the bright red lines appear on that soft white flesh, how he'd have even kept on laughing in encouragement if it weren't for Belch's startled cries snapping him out of it; how he'd wanted to turn tail and head home when Henry had lost his knife, pleading to whatever higher power existed that he wouldn't find it, not just because he was afraid of Henry by that point but because he was afraid of what he _himself_ might do; how that fright had escalated to a worrying crescendo by the time the three of them caught and cornered Hanlon, what might have happened if Bev herself hadn't stepped in with a well-aimed rock--

"You need to stay away from Henry," Vic repeated.

Before they could say anything else, he turned and left.

 

-

 

He saw them again not even a week later.

Change jingled in his pocket as he headed to Center Street Drug, ready to shoplift himself some Kools. He had been appallingly low all week.

"You're gonna put someone's eye out with that thing."

"Grow up. Do you want me to show you how to do it or not?"

The kids on the bench outside the Aladdin didn't seem ready to shut up anytime soon, and Vic was just about ready to make known his thoughts on their unintended double entendre until he saw who it was.

Bev and Trashmouth Tozier.

He nearly stopped in the middle of the sidewalk at the sight of them, _together_ , feeling his hand curl into a fist not just out of instinct but out of necessity - but as Tozier's mouth didn't immediately squawk a warning to Bev, they clearly hadn't spotted him, and so he slunk behind the bench they relaxed on, letting his jacket do its intended job and camouflage him into the shopfronts and shrubbery as he strolled past, sneaking back as many glances as he dared.

Bev had one leg perched on the bench, the other dangling down, casually walking a bright purple yo-yo. Tozier watched in fascination, his boombox still in tow, making sure everyone within a thirty-yard radius could also enjoy Mark Slaughter's ear-splitting vocals.

They passed a lit cigarette between them.

She had always carried with her a faint whiff of smoke; the little knock-off bottle of Jordache Looks he'd seen her spritzing over her hair and clothes and bookbag before she went home did little to disguise it. He'd wondered, more than once, how it never landed her in hot water with her old man (the one and only time Vic had wandered home reeking of cigarette smoke, Andy Criss had snatched an old issue of Fisherman's Weekly, rolled it into a tight, mean little rod and proceeded to smack the ever-living shit out of his son's already wind-chapped knuckles until they turned a bright angry pink).

 _"You've known all along,"_ Slaughter wailed accusingly. _"And it just makes my blood run wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiild... And I'm dyyyyyyyying..."_

"Jesus, this song. I'm the one fucking dying. Change it, Bev."

"You've got arms. Anyway, I like it."

"Sheesh. Figures."

"Sorry, but is this music snobbery from a _Kiss fan_?"

Ignoring that last jab, Tozier continued on, "The Irish have shitty taste in music. _Everyone_ knows it," then, almost confidentially, as if he were imparting her with an ancient wisdom, "Can't help what's in your blood, I guess."

"My family came from England, you asshole."

"Shit. Even _worse_."

"Sweet-talker like that, no wonder I'm the first girl willing to be seen in public with you, Rich."

Nearly half a block away, Vic chanced another look back, then, almost (gleefully) ready for fisticuffs - but rather than the cacophony which could only follow such a scathing blow at one's manhood, Tozier wasn't hurtling back abuse of his own - he just _grinned_ , saluting Bev with both middle fingers, and though she was rolling her eyes - she was smiling, too, warming and fond.

Just like that. _Comfortable_ , as if they'd known each other forever. Like it was easy as breathing.

_(easy as throwing a rock)_

Something sharp and bitter twisted his stomach, lingered bleakly as he walked on. As if the decay of Derry and its citizens were no more pressing thoughts to them, to _her_ , than what they'd be purchasing at the concession stand.

 _Get a fucking grip, you jerk,_ he told himself. _There's bigger shit to worry over now._ This cheerful reminder did little to unclench the jealous knots his guts had tied themselves into over the sound of their shared giggles.

"My boombox, my rules, babe," Tozier crowed, after he'd tackled the radio and switched to the thumping bass of 'Too Young To Fall In Love' and Bev mimed vomiting loudly, her sprite's nose wrinkled in a grimace.

If they could pretend everything was fine, he sure as well fucking could, too.

  
-

 

Vic took a sip from his bottle of Geary's and smiled drowsily at his friends.

The beer had been stolen from Butch's secret stash. The old bastard was long gone for the station; wouldn't be back for hours, now. More missing kids business. Hockstetter still hadn't been found, but Victor pushed that thought away, a phantom hand that strained and grasped and failed to have a hold on him. This was all just fine as paint - fine day fine sun fine _beer_ \- and he refused to spare a second's thought more to that squirmy creep.

Because Henry was in the highest spirits he'd been in weeks - in _months_ \- and, hell, _that_ was fine, too.

He was supposed to be cleaning his father's spare revolver, but was instead practicing his aim - no more kiddieshit slingshot, not today, no _sir_ \--

It was like the way it used to be, back when it was just the three of them (before Moose, before Gard, before Peter before Patrick before Bev), shooting the shit in the Huggins rec room, trading ball cards and firecrackers, not worrying over girls or things both grotesque and _unnatural_.

He heard a plaintive meow from near the tractor. A stray cat lurked, feasting happily on the remains of Belch's half-eaten Slim Jim. The sun warmed his face, the beer warmed his belly, and he laughed as Henry aimed at the empty bottle of Jack Daniels, shattering it, an explosion of glass raining over the field.

It was going to be a good day.


End file.
